The End
by javct
Summary: You wake up one fine day and the day doesn't seem so fine. The only constellation you can find is a gun and a bullet and it would fit perfectly in your mouth. ;;suicide fic;;


**Author's Note: **this clearly isn't going to win fan-fic-of-the-year but I'm actually really proud with how it turned out. Please feed that little box in the bottom with your thoughts!

* * *

It is those ten seconds  
those ten seconds in your head  
when you don't wonder if you're alright  
you're just hanging around with yourself - with yourself

* * *

He spends his days worrying how  
and when he is gonna die  
that is irony in fine  
he loves life so much, that's why  
even if he knows that it is true  
he can't help it in **The End.**

* * *

You can't quite remember what led you to feel this low. Maybe it was breaking Harlem, maybe it was the other guy trying to break through. You feel alone, desolate and angry. You've felt low before in your life but never this low - you've never reached the point where the anger and sadness was so bad that you felt the need to take drastic measures. Running your fingers through your hair, you think back over the past few months.

It hasn't gone exactly how you planned. Then again, you muse, does anything? You tried to replicate Captain America and you got _him. _Him who has taken over your life; him who makes you lose control and forget exactly what hap happened. You want to curse him, to make him pay for what he's done to your life. The big green monster. The Hulk people like to call him. How the hell does he have a name? You wonder, the other guy doesn't deserve a name. To you, no matter what, he will always be 'the other guy' not 'The Hulk.'

How bloody sentimental you are sometimes, it's your worse fault: sentiment.

You hit your head in a forlorn attempt to get rid of your thoughts but it's no use. Once an idea has got in your mind you cannot get it out. It's one of the many vices of being you. Feeling the back of your head, you feel blood. Blood is nothing knew to you. You see blood on a daily basis; you pretty much live in a bloodbath. Nevertheless, you put an icepack on the back of your head. You don't want your life but survival instincts won over. You snort at yourself, you lost your life when you gained The Other Guy. Closing your eyes, you slowly drift to an unstable sleep.

.

Death—Blood.

Blood—Life.

Life—Massacre.

Massacre—Love.

Love—The End.

The End—Betty Ross.

.

Flashes of your former life fly through your mind. You see people you want to forget and you forget people you want to remember (so are the ways of humanity). It's only in your dreams that you vaguely remember what you've done as the other guy. It's always terrible, you never have any good memories as the other guy (then again, why would there be?).

"You live a haunted life Banner," The Other Guy whispered, "A haunted life. You killed everything and everyone you touch. Is it even worth all this? You lost the one you live and killed the ones your hated. Haunted, Banner, haunted."

You awake, screaming. You pull the sheets up to your chest and weep. You can't remember the last time you wept like this. You don't just cry for yourself, you cry for all the families you tore apart, you cry for all the shrapnel you caused. You cry for others, not just yourself.

"Haunted, Banner… You kill everything you touch. Is it worth it?… Haunted." The words run through you at a hundred miles an hour. They're true, there's no denying it, you just don't want to believe it.

You stand to your feet and the sheets fall to the ground in a heap. You wonder how many people you have killed, how many families you've torn apart.

It's been four months since you're last _outburst—turning. _Your longest time to date. You know you should feel proud of yourself but you can't. No matter how hard you try you cannot feel happy or proud; you just feel empty.

It's in that moment you have an idea. A terrible, horrible idea that might just work. Would it? Would you? Could you even bare it? The pain, the suffering, the knowing? These are the things that you're most afraid of. You think of the other guy and all the pain it's inflicted. For such a deplorable creature, death is the only gift. Pain does not slow it down, shrapnel will not wound it. Death is the only option.

Your hands are shaking as you reach into the nearby drawer. There is nobody around so they wouldn't find your body for a while and by then nobody will be able to identify who you are. Not that any of that matters anymore. You are sure that by the time anyone finds you that you're body would have decayed into the ground anyway. It seemed pointless, you muse as your fingers trace around the edges, you are born into a life that is built to suit you and you live in any way possible, you find your kicks and fall in and out of love like changing season, then, after all you've done you die. If you're lucky you can leave a footprint on the ground you stood on.

.

You tried to leave a footprint, instead you left a crater.

You tried to fall in love, but you destroyed her life.

You tried to make amends, but you just made more of a mess.

Now you only had to die. To complete the cycle.

.

Tears fall down your cheeks freely, this isn't exactly how you imagined your life to happen. "Nothing ever goes to plan does it?" You say aloud. You seek comfort in your voice but you don't find it. Your voice is as empty as the rest of you.

Looking down, you can see the gun in your hand. When did you buy a gun? You can't recall. Shooting yourself in the head does not ensure a clean death. You just want this to be over. You open your mouth and pull the gun to your mouth. Your hands are shaking visibly now.

_It'll be over soon,_you assure yourself.

Inexplicably you think of Betty Ross. You think of the way her hair felt when you ran your fingers through it; the way her lips felts on yours. She was the only good thing that happened to you.

You laugh, smile and wonder what she's doing right now. You stop. That's the first time you have laugh in months. Maybe there was still redemption left in you, maybe... just maybe. Maybe you could see her just one last time before you end it; you could see her and tell her that you love her. You could listen to her say that she loves you over and over again. She was your salvation maybe she could save you just one final time. Maybe Betty could—

****.

**You pull the trigger.**

.

Silence followed. For moments you wonder if you pulled the trigger for you feel no pain. More silence followed. Then came pain; your brain was screaming "bloody murder!" and your pulse got faster, faster, faster...

You look down and all you see is blood, your blood. Falling to your knees you bang on the floor; nothing is working to get rid of the pain. It's just there.

You should be dead. Why the hell aren't you dead? No, oh no. Your screams split your skull. Falling to your knees you curl your back. You know this pain only too well. He's coming. He doesn't want you to die. You feel every bone in your body snap; first your legs, your arms, your toes, fingers.

You pray for the end, you just want this to be over. Your screams grow louder and louder until they resemble a roar. With one final scream, he won.

.

You wake many hours later, shivering and naked. You didn't kill anyone, not even yourself.

(—you can't even do that right—)

You let out a long sigh and look around. You have destroyed your house, but that's mendable. "That's not possible." You mutter as you feel the back of your head. There is no bullet wound, no blood, no nothing.

You look around and find the bullet lying among the debris.

You felt low so you put a bullet in your head and the other guy… The Hulk spat it out.


End file.
